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It is no secret that West Virginia has a problem. Truthfully, the word “problem” fails to grasp the true magnitude of what is happening here in the Mountain State.

They call us pillbillies. In the (not so) distant past, one of our larger towns, Huntington, was declared the opioid capital of the country. We have more opioid related deaths than anywhere else. Check out this article in the New Yorker about the crisis.

There is another “problem,” though, and one almost as deadly and dangerous as the pills, and the heroine that eventually shows up on the scene. That problem is a little more complex, a little more deep rooted and hard to define. There are several words that come to mind–cold-heartedness, pride, snobbiness, judgmental (that’s a good one), and down right cruelty.

Consider the recent story about some teenagers who not only watched, but filmed, as a man drowned. The obvious outranged reaction of nearly everyone in the country has been everything from disdain to down right rage. I’ve seen comments suggesting that the guillotine be brought back in to service. While I’m not calling for any beheading, the story makes me sick. I think it is a sad testament to how this current generation of teens has developed empathy (or the lack thereof.) But that’s a post for another day.

At any rate, we can all pretty much agree that standing by and watching, laughing, and filming while someone drowns is not acceptable behavior.

The people of West Virginia are drowning, and yet somehow we have deemed it acceptable to stand by and watch.

There are conflicting reports as to where opioid addiction starts. Some reports say that users start with prescriptions. Others say that is not the case. It is generally accepted that opioid pill abuse leads to heroine, which is about one tenth the price of the pills, which, incidentally, have been shipped into this state by the truck load.

Let me sum up my feelings on this matter by paraphrasing a statement from the novel Warm Bodies: once you reach the end of the world, the road you took to get there hardly matters.

This post isn’t about the opioid epidemic. It isn’t about the causes of addiction, which are as diverse as the addicts themselves. It’s about the rest of us–the non-addicts, if you will.

We’re watching our neighbors drown.

I’m as guilty as the rest. I get frustrated and talk about “the druggies” and “the pill heads” and bitch about how law enforcement isn’t doing anything about it, and how you can’t even walk around in a small town that, by definition, should be one of the safest places in the world. I get it. It sucks.

I’m not telling you to invite these people to sleep in your house at night. Maybe, though, we might do well to stop and realize that these “druggies” are still people. Sadly, so many of them are young people who are following in the deadly footsteps of parents who were hooked even before their doomed children were born. They are moms and dads and grandparents and cousins and uncles. In short, they are just people–people who are drowning.

And all we are doing is judging them. We are watching them drown, and lots of times we are filming it as well.

I see it every day, especially on the accursed Facebook, where the whole population feels entitled to the role of armchair quarterback. We wag our heads and make faces of disgust. Druggies. Pill heads. Worthless losers.

We are trying to do something about the overdose death rate. Early this year, Naloxone was distributed across the state to be administered to overdose cases. It reverses the respiratory depression caused by opioid overdose. It is on hand for paramedics, police officers, and even in some schools.

Are people glad about that? I’ll let you guess.

Need more time? Or did you figure it out already?

The amount of negative commentary on this lifesaving drug is astounding, especially when you consider how many of these naysayers are “Christians.” Why should our tax dollars go to save these druggies? People are going without health insurance and are struggling to make ends meet, and you are taking our hard earned dollars and giving them to the pill heads. Let them die. They have made their own beds, let them lay in them, right?

Wrong.

Shame on anyone who feels this way. Shame on any who get on social media and brag about how they and their family exist on some higher astral plane than the rest of us sinners, how they and their sainted families have never dealt with addiction because they are Godly and the rest of us are not. Shame on Sunday morning “Christians” who sit in the pew and praise Jesus, then go out into the world and speak words worthy of the Devil himself. Shame. Shame, shame, shame.

I think each and every one of us who hasn’t been stricken with this epidemic had better drop down on our knees right now and say a prayer that we have been spared. I think we better take a minute to remember that if we live without compassion, we are living an empty life–a selfish life full of self-important goals and ideas. We have forgotten that each of us has just a short time here, and each of us is fragile–as fragile as blown glass. To judge and sneer and turn our backs on our neighbors seems to me the greatest sin of all.

I know I’m guilty, too, but I’m trying. I’m trying to realize that I have no idea what struggles other go through every day. I know what it’s like to have an addictive personality. I know what escapism is. If you go to the fridge or the pantry when you are stressed, you do too. None of us are immune.

To the pseudo Christians out there, allow me to leave you with this, some verses from the Book of Matthew, chapter 25, starting with verse 40: Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you accursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me no drink, a stranger and you gave me no welcome, naked and you gave me no clothing, ill and in prison, and you did not care for me.’ Now skip ahead to verse 45: He will answer them, ‘Amen, I say to you, what you did not do for one of these least ones, you did not do for me.’ And these will go off to eternal punishment, but the righteous to eternal life.

Do you ever get the feeling that God is speaking to you? Maybe sending you a sign?

Not those kinds of signs, but the kinds that only you see. I’ll give you two examples.

Wednesday of last week was Ash Wednesday. My sister was watching an episode of Roseanne. It was from either the last season or the next to last season. Roseanne is teaching some rich white folks how to be white trash. She said, “Women who yell don’t need pills. Pills were invented by men to stop women from yelling!”

It struck me as funny, but it also lodged itself unknowingly into my brain.

Fast forward a few days, and my best friend makes this casual comment to me over the phone: “I’ve heard you laugh more in the past few days than I have for a long time.”

This has all been foreshadowing. (See how literary I am? Don’t you just want to throw money at me for my writing?) Last Tuesday was my last Prozac. Absolutely not on purpose! Don’t be impressed! No indeed–my prescription didn’t have any refills, and we got hit with a massive storm that knocked out power early Wednesday morning. Power was out not only at the pharmacy, but also at my doctor’s office, so I couldn’t call in for a refill.

Now, if you can follow the Tarantino-ish order of this post so far, here’s what has happened: I have inadvertently given up Prozac for Lent.

It just so happened my last pill was on Fat Tuesday. I couldn’t get it refilled on Ash Wednesday. When the day finally came for me to submit the refill because the doctor was going to be in the next day, I hear that very, very important comment from my friend.

She’s heard me laugh more in the last week then she has in a long time.

The week I haven’t had the Prozac.

If that isn’t food for thought, I don’t know what is.

I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder. In old fashioned terms, I’m hyper, nervous, neurotic, etc. This is not revolutionary news to anyone, I assure you. A few years ago, though, it was moving past the point of comedy routine material into the land of serious issues. Sleep was nearly impossible. When I did sleep, I had terrible nightmares. My first panic attack prompted me to talk to a doctor. I didn’t even have a regular family doctor up to that point.

The panic attack was a thing I cannot describe. It happened on the way back from a beautiful, stress free vacation. That was the most upsetting part. It came from nowhere. It wasn’t a “break” or anything like that. I was just riding along in the car on the way home from the ocean, and bam. Well, more like BAAAMMMMM!!!!!!!!!!!!

I started to notice the semi in the lane next to us. It kept distracting me from the ongoing conversation. It kept catching my eye. Suddenly, I started to get afraid. (Although afraid fails to truly describe the feeling.) I sweated. I cried. I shook. My mouth tasted like pennies. I became convinced we were all (me, my husband, my kids, and my sister) were going to die in a horrific accident. I saw it. A good imagination is a blessing and a curse, let me tell you. My throat closed up and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I had to fight the temptation to literally tear open the door of the car and jump out. Really.

Well, I confess to you now that I took one of my sisters strong narcotic medications to knock myself out. I slept for a couple hours of the ride home, and when I woke up, I felt a little better. It’s hard to describe, but somehow, that event made me more aware of the feelings that I guess had always been there,unacknowledged, hanging like some sort of poisonous snake around my neck. It was ready to slither up any time to whisper in my ear all of the tragic and terrible things that could happen, that were happening, in the world, and in my life, every day. I had to do something.

So, to cut this long story slightly shorter, Prozac galloped onto the scene like my White Knight, and I found I could deal with daily stresses without being quite so “hyper” or “nervous” or “neurotic.” To me, this was a good thing. To my family, who loves me and worries about me and, to be frank, is a little afraid of me, it was a miracle.

I short, I squashed the bad feelings.

Here’s what scares me: have I squashed all of the feelings?

I am a loud woman. I am passionate and sometimes overbearing and sometimes overemotional. My temper has gotten me into more tough spots than I care to recall. I love to laugh, and laugh loud and hard. I have a hard time keeping my opinion to myself. I think all of these things are what makes me Janice. They make me Mom, and The (not so) Special Mother, and the woman whose husband said, “There’s no one like you, babe. One’s enough,” and he said it in response to my query as to whether or not he was sure he really wanted to marry me.

So here is the question (the one that is keeping the stars apart): Have I, and other’s like me, medicated ourselves right out of living?

Life is supposed to be hard. The hard is what makes it good. It’s scary and tragic and beautiful and funny and horrible and everything. It is anxiety causing!! Is it possible we are taught to squash feelings rather than deal with them? Are we in a cycle of denial and repression that sucks in not only ourselves, but everyone around us?

I don’t know the answer to these questions. I’ll be frank–they scare the hell out of me. The thought that God is trying to tell me something so specific equally scares the hell out of me. I’m not the best Catholic lately. Maybe God is telling me to rely on Him, and on my own faith, rather than chemicals from a bottle. Maybe God is telling me that my life is a gift, warts and all. My feelings and reactions are a part of that life. They are a part of me. I’m going to give them a chance this Lent. I’m going to try and deal with them instead of trying to squash them. Not to get too deep, but I’m going to feel them, then I’m going to try to let them go and give them to God.

Pray for me. I need it.

We all do.

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Disclaimer: In no way am I suggesting that every person who takes some sort of depression or anxiety controlling medication should just toss those pills out the window and embrace the agony. It’s a story about my own life, and if it speaks to you, then so be it. Cheers!

Here’s an unusual way for The (not so) Special Mother to start a blog post: with some Bible verses. Check it out.

James, Chapter 3, verses 3-9

If we put bits into the mouths of horses to make them obey us, we also guide their whole bodies. It is the same with ships: even though they are so large and driven by fierce winds, they are steered by a very small rudder wherever the pilot’s inclination wishes. In the same way the tongue is a small member and yet has great pretensions.

Consider how small a fire can set a huge forest ablaze. The tongue is also a fire. It exists among other members as a world of malice, defiling the whole body and setting the entire course of our lives on fire, itself set on fire by Gehenna. For every kind of beast and bird, of reptile and sea creature, can be tamed and has been tamed by the human species, but no human being can tame the tongue. It is a restless evil, full of deadly poison. With it we bless the Lord and Father, and with it we curse human beings who are made in the likeness of God. {Emphasis in bold is mine.}

Martin Luther called Saint James the “epistle of straw,” but between you and me, I think it’s because James upholds so many Catholic beliefs, and we all know how old ML felt about the Catholic Church.

However, this post isn’t about the differences between Protestants and Catholics (which are far fewer than you think) or about theology at all, really.

It’s about tempers and tongues in general, and mine in particular.

I happen to love the whole book of James. You seldom hear anyone quote him, or read from his letter. In reality, though, he pulls no punches, and I think he pretty much spells Christianity out in black and white. My extremely brief synopsis of James’ letter is this–stop telling everyone you’re a Christian and start acting like one.

As much as I love reading James, and as much as I sit and nod my head, as much as the Protestant in me wants to jump up and yell “Amen, brother!” I find myself quite the hypocrite.

Do any of you have a temper?

I mean, everyone gets mad sometimes. That’s human nature. But I’m talking about a temper. A TEMPER. The kind that takes a whole lot to trigger, but once it is triggered, look out. The kind of temper that explodes and splashes molten rage on whatever poor soul might be in the vicinity. The kind of temper that causes normally nice, kind hearted people–people who would never say hurtful things to anyone, especially someone they loved–to spew forth angry words and actions, consequences be damned.

You know, that kind of temper.

Guess what? Yours truly has that selfsame temper, and it has been a plague my whole life. I had hoped, as a younger person, that when I become older, I would learn to “control” this unpleasant facet of my personality. That it would somehow fade into little more than an unpleasant memory.

Well, it hasn’t, and I daresay it has only changed its ugly form. Now it takes much more for me to lose said temper, but when I do, it seems as though I have less control over what I do, and more importantly, what I say, than even I did when I was younger.

I can make excuses about this, but I’ve had a hell of an examination of conscience over the past couple of weeks, and I think a “temper” is little more than an excuse to behave poorly, and to speak cruelly. Aside from a small percentage of the population who may have some sort of emotional or behavioral disorder, do any of us really “lose control” of our tempers, or do we simply give up control, because it makes us feel better to say all of the ugly things that can flash through our minds in times of upset and stress, and of course, anger.

Chew on that one for a while.

James says our tongues are impossible to bridle, “a restless evil and full of deadly poison.” That pretty much sums it up, doesn’t it? Oh, the harm we can inflict with our words, but oh, how easily we allow them to “slip” out. All in the name of anger, and our tempers.

I myself have spewed deadly poison on more than one occasion. And I am no rookie–I know just the words to hurt and cut. When I get mad enough, I can fire with deadly accuracy right into the heart of anyone, even my nearest and dearest. Right now half the country is clamoring for gun control, but sometimes I wonder if we’d all do a little better with some tongue control. God knows I could.

My temper is no excuse. I am a fully functioning human being–I have absolute control over all of my faculties. Why should the tongue be different? What excuse should allow me to say horrible things? Because I got mad? How foolish. How childish. If we can’t even control the words the come out of our own mouths (or that we type on the screen), how are we better than even a child? James says we praise God with our tongues, then turn around and curse the very people who are just like us–human beings going through the same struggles as all the other human beings on the planet–and, more importantly, all made in the image and likeness of God.

So the next time I feel a temper tantrum coming on, I’m going to try to do better. I’m going to remind myself of all of my own shortcomings. I’m going to think of the feelings of the person I’m getting ready to blast. Even if it seems like they have no feelings, I’m going to think about the awful, hateful taste those anger-fueled words leave in my own mouth. I’m going to remember that James says our tongues are full of poison, and then I’ll realize that our tongues are in our own mouths.

To say the State of West Virginia has had a rough couple of days would be a massive understatement.

To make a long and extremely depressing story somewhat shorter, suffice it to say we received record rainfall amounts across much of the state, and as a result we had record flooding.

This is just a glimpse of the widespread destruction and devastation that struck our state. Over twenty lives have been lost. Homes were completely wiped out, people have been displaced and are staying in shelters, and everything has been just generally awful in every imaginable way.

It’s the type of situation that you think only happens in “other” places, to “other” people, but in reality, it happened all around us. Small communities that we grew up in, that we have vacationed in or simply just driven through on a regular basis have been reduced to so much stinking, muddy, condemned rubble.

We escaped damage, thanks be to God. Our driveway washed out and there a little water in the low spots of our basement that seeped in through the walls, but that’s it.

But this post isn’t about that.

What I have witnessed over the past few days, besides destruction and loss and devastation, is something I forgot about. It’s something that is special about this place I live, this place which I catch myself holding in disdain from time to time. It’s easy to look around, especially in small towns (which is really all WV has), and see all of the stereotypical things that people associate with our state. As a lifelong resident, I find myself frustrated at times with the small town mentality, the fear of the unknown, and the unwillingness to change. I lament the poor school systems, and even sometimes wish I could live somewhere else–anywhere else, where the people weren’t so backward and trapped in the past.

And so I forgot.

I forgot that any state is basically just geography, just a place, the boundaries of which were drawn out politically a hundred or so years ago. The boundaries and shape of a state don’t define its personality any more than a simple snapshot of your face can define your personality. A state–this state–is defined by the people who live in it. We, like all humans, have our flaws. We may be backward and fearful of change. We may stick obstinately to our small town ways, even in the face of these global times. Yes, we do have a drug problem here that has arguably reached epidemic status. We are hicks, and some of us are rednecks, and we may sound funny to you when we speak, and yes, we are hillbillies.

But we are strong.

Like everyone else, along with our faults come an array of qualities that shame the rest of the world. Over these past few days, I have seen people rally together in a way that I never even knew was possible. Shelters were set up and donations were pouring in before some people had even been rescued from their homes. People have taken in complete strangers right into their homes. We are a poor state, and I know some of the people who have given had little to give, but donations have literally rolled into all of the shelters and staging points.

The National Guard is here, but they can’t keep up with us.

In the midst of this disaster, I am reminded of what this state, at its heart, truly is. It’s people who take up for each other, and help their neighbor, and give of themselves, even when they have little to give. The heart of a Mountaineer is as large as the mountains we call home. Some of the people who have been on tv have had some missing teeth, and horrible grammar, and maybe they didn’t really look like the type of person you would associate with a “good” person, but that’s just what they are. This has reminded me that people are not defined by how they sound or how they look, but rather by their actions. And the actions of my neighbors over the past few days have served to remind me that it’s okay to be who I am, and it’s okay to be from where I’m from. It’s okay to be a hillbilly.

Easter of 2013 was a big occasion for me. I was confirmed into the Roman Catholic Church.

Interesting for a girl who was raised by a Baptist minister, right?

I won’t use this post to go into what lead me home to Holy Mother Church. What has troubled me nearly every day since my confirmation is how the Church is perceived in our society.

If you live in New York or Boston, or any fair-sized city, I guess, this may mean nothing to you. However, when you live “in the country,” as I do and always have, Protestantism, in one form or another, is pretty much the only religion you know. When you say the word “Catholic,” you can almost watch as the misconceptions about the Church roll across people’s minds.

So, rather than get into a theological debate about the finer points of Catholicism, which I am NOT qualified to do, I want to share with you some of the things I have heard about the Church, and how I know they are not true because of my own personal experience. Here we go:

1. The Catholic Church worships Mary.

The short answer to this, of course, is no, we don’t. Stick with me on this “worshiping something besides God” thing, because it seems to be a recurring theme. The most important thing I can say about this accusation is that Catholics worship one God, and only one God. Further, we believe in God as three persons–the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Since we also believe in and follow the Ten Commandments, the first of which is not to worship anyone but God (I’m paraphrasing), to worship Mary (or the Pope, or a saint) would be a mortal sin and a heresy, and as such, would endanger our souls to Hell. So we don’t take this lightly.

However, that is not to say that we do not love our Mother. She is the Mother of God, and, as such, we honor her with highest honor. She was the first Christian. She is a model of how a Christian should behave. Since another Commandment tells us to honor our parents, we feel pretty sure the Mother of God is worthy of honor. And yes, we invoke her intercession in our prayers. More on that later.

2. Catholics aren’t Christians.

In simplest terms, Christians are followers of Christ as the true Son of God, and as part of the Holy Trinity. That is exactly what Catholics believe, and so, yes, we are Christians.

3. Catholics worship The Pope

Please see number 1. We don’t worship our Holy Father. We do not think he is divine.

We do, however, acknowledge him as the Earthly leader of our Church. He is the number one Catholic. Have there been corrupt popes? You’d better believe it. Peter himself, the first head of the Church, denied even knowing Christ. History buffs could tell you all kinds of shenanigans popes have been up to. Here’s the thing–the Pope is, after all, only a human. He is placed at the head of a Church that is also made up of–you guessed it–humans. In his own actions, he is not infallible. However, we do believe that in Church doctrine he is infallible. His being the head of our Church is no different that your pastor being the head of yours. And so what if we all get very excited to see him? Good grief, we live in a society that does nearly worship celebrities! Consider William and Kate, and Brangelina. Don’t even get me started on how people acted towards The Beatles and Elvis. And we can’t jump up and down and cry when we see our Holy Father? Baloney.

4. Catholics pray to Saints/Statues/Pictures/Other Graven Images

Wow, this really is a recurring theme, isn’t it?

Anyway, again, see number 1. We don’t worship anyone but God.

Do we pray to Saints? Yes we do. But not in the way you think. The way we talk to the saints is the same way you talk to your brothers and sisters in Christ here on Earth. Heck, you probably ask someone to pray for you almost every day, don’t you? Why? Well, when we call upon the saints, we are asking for them to pray for us. These are holy people and why shouldn’t we believe that they can hear our prayers and pray for us? All of us need all the help we can get.

Do we love pictures of saints and statues and all of that good stuff? You bet. Let me ask you this–do you keep pictures of a dearly departed loved one? Why do you do that? Do you keep mementos from trips and vacations and baby clothes and locks of hair and who knows what else? I’m sure all of those things are perfectly acceptable to you. Why wouldn’t they be. So, why can’t I, as a Catholic, have a painting of a saint whose life speaks particularly to me? Why can’t I have a picture of The Blessed Mother to remind me that she understands what a mother’s suffering for her child truly is? These things are mementos, and reminders, of people who Catholics love. It has nothing to do with worship.

5. Catholics think a priest can take away their sins.

This one seems more complicated on the surface, but it really isn’t. No, we do NOT believe a priest can take away our sins. God’s mercy takes away our sins. However, for that to happen, Catholics do believe you need to confess those sins, and yes, you confess to a priest. The priest is acting en persona Christi, which means in the place of Christ, there in the confessional. And yes, the priests prays the prayer of absolution over you, but let me tell you, it is Christ who is there in that confessional, and it is Him who absolves you of your sins. The priest is basically your tour guide through the most wonderful experience you can have as a member of the Catholic Church.

6. All that bowing/crossing yourself/incense, etc., is just weird.

If you’re not a Catholic, I’m sure seeing what goes on in an actual Mass would be very intimidating to most. All of the bowing and kneeling may seem strange, and to some, even sacrilegious. Let me tell you, I’ve been to a lot of church services in my life, and I have never felt more in the presence of God than I do during Mass. We bow and kneel because we believe the Body and Blood of Christ are on that altar. Speaking things in unison causes everyone to participate in Mass together. You are doing something, not just sitting there. You are practicing your faith. It is revered as a holy and sacred time and place. Shouldn’t the worship of God be treated with such reverence?

I’m going to stop for now. I’ll leave you with this:

I’m not trying to make everyone become Catholic (although if you want to, good on you!) What I’m trying to do is make people realize that Christians are cutting their own throats by quarreling among themselves. It’s about time we let go of misconceptions and outright lies and just remember that we are all called to follow Christ’s example.

Like this:

I just watched a video which listed the biggest tear-jerker movies of all time.

I think movies based on Nicholas Sparks books made the list at least three times. Maybe more. I sort of lost interest about half way through.

We just can’t get enough of the sappy, drippy, romantic tragedies, can we? What is it? Maybe it’s the idea that love transcends tragedy, and exists even in spite of cancer and death and dementia.

Now, before any of you Sparks fans out there start planning my painful death, let me assure you, I think Mr. Sparks is a talented man. He knows how to tug on the heart strings.

But there are some of us (or at least me) who believe a real tear-jerker movie isn’t just sap from front to back and top to bottom. It’s a movie that gets you. It breaks your heart. And then someone gets stabbed in the eye with a sword.

Anyway, here are my nominations for the greatest tear-jerker movies of all time:

Last of the Mohicans. This movie kills me. Kills me. It is a very violent movie at times, but it is also a wonderful story based on the book by James Fenimore Cooper. The acting is top notch (we are talking about Daniel Day Lewis, after all) and there are true edge-of-your-seat moments. It really hits the mark, though, because there are whole scenes with absolutely no dialogue. Guess what? These are the scenes that are the most powerful and, yes, tear jerking. Whole planets of emotion are shared between the characters with just eye contact, and of course the heart rending music in the background.

Cast Away. I bet you think I’m going to tell you I cried the most near the end, when Tom Hanks is getting ready to drive away and Helen Hunt comes running down the driveway in the rain (of course.) WRONG! Although that is a highly charged moment, the part of the movie that will crush you is when Tom Hanks loses his best friend. That’s right–Wilson, the volleyball. Wilson is tied onto the life raft, and he comes loose and starts drifting away before Tom realizes it, and then gets too far out of reach to be recovered. Then we get to see Tom Hanks sobbing his heart out over a volleyball, and I sob right along with him. Because it’s not really just Wilson he’s crying over, you know? He’s crying because, well, everything. And that breaks your heart.

The Patriot. I can’t pinpoint one moment in this film, because it is brutal. Let me just say, don’t get attached to too many characters in this film, because they drop like flies. I will say the scene where Mel Gibson is leaving and his little girl runs after him and speaks to him for the first time in forever is over-the-top ugly-cry material.

Forrest Gump. You knew this one had to make the list, right? Tom Hanks is brilliant, and this movie is all the proof needed to back up that statement. How many times do I cry during this movie? The Lord might know–I don’t. Bubba dies, Lieutenant Dan has his “what am I gonna do now” moment, Momma dies, and let’s not forget when Forrest sees his son and wants to know if he is like him. Then Jenny dies, and if you had any heart left, it gets destroyed by the whole “I miss you, Jenny” thing.

Braveheart. I have never cried over any movie as much as I cry over this one. It would take a book to list all the tear-jerking scenes in this movie. This movie uses the “no dialogue” technique, too. When Murron is killed, and Mel Gibson leans over her right before they are going to bury her, he breathes in her scent like he did when she was still alive, and it’s almost too much to watch. Then right before he dies, he sees Murron in the crowd walking toward him, and the music changes, and, and…..excuse me a minute, okay?

Okay, I’m better. Sorry, but that one gets me every time.

So, what makes your list? What movie rips out your heart? And don’t worry if it is a Nicholas Sparks film. I will only make fun of you a little.

Like this:

I’ve always heard that the first step in dealing with a problem is admitting you have one, so there you go. I said it. I’m fat. Obese. Portly. Robust. Chubby. Rotund. Chunky. Round. Not thin.

You get the picture.

I’ve never been what one would call a “skinny” person. Certainly I’ve never fit into the modern ideal of how a woman should look. I have always had a comfortable, pack mule type build. Short, strong, and dependable. Not ideal, but useful.

At any rate, the pack mule has been packing on the pounds. It’s depressing. The simple fact is, my metabolism has become my enemy. The things I used to be able to get away with now seemingly add pounds and inches almost instantaneously. I can eat an order of fries, and if I’m very quiet, I can actually hear the fat cell orgy that is going on in my thighs. Those little suckers multiply by the thousands, by the millions, and they are nearly impossible to kill.

Not that I’ve tried all that hard.

The truth is, I never worked up enough care to do much about my physical appearance. The years go by, you get a little older, a little slower, and a little squishy around the middle. That’s life, right? For me, though, the years have gone by, and the fat has sneakily appeared. At first, I thought the changing temperature and humidity in my closet was causing my clothing to shrink. Then I noticed only my clothes were shrinking. Huh. I had to buy a bigger size, then a bigger one, until I have now finally reached the point where, if I don’t do something, I’ll just have to convert a king size sheet into a toga and wear that.

That’s not the worst part.

The worst part is that I also recently got a lecture from my doctor about a bunch of scary terms like “HDL” and “LDL” and “blood pressure” and God knows what else. I finally had to take action.

So I went to McDonald’s.

Ha ha, just kidding. What I really did was join a gym. Really. I also gave up sweets, soda, and, horror of horrors, smoking. So, in short, my life sucks now. Ha ha! Another joke! See how humorous I’m feeling?

I’ve never been a member of a gym before. It’s hard to pretend you know what you are doing when, in fact, you are trying to use your legs for the chest press. Anyway, the treadmill seemed like a safe option, so that’s where I spend a lot of my gym time. Treadmill time is sssslllloooooooowwww time, so I have a lot of time to reflect, while trying to pretend like I’m not about ready to drop dead from a heart attack.

That’s really the biggest challenge to the whole gym thing, isn’t it? Pretending we are already in shape? Obviously, I am at the gym because the only shape I’m in is round, but why is everyone there smaller and in better shape than me?! They run on the treadmill. They toss free weights around as though they (the weights) were made of paper mache. And over here I am, praying to God I don’t have some sort of bowel-related incident while trying to leg lift 25 pounds.

It’s hard not to be discouraged.

Also, I think about food a lot. Like, a lot. Our entire culture pretty much revolves around food. Did you ever notice? Every family gathering, from weddings to funerals and everything in between, is somehow focused on food. I’m not talking about health food either. When was the last time you took tofu and watercress to a family reunion? In addition to constantly having food, the amount we eat is ridiculous. We aren’t satisfied until we have eaten enough food to test the limits of the most forgiving elastic waistband. We may actually reach a point where we have eaten so much food we are no longer able to hold ourselves in a vertical position, but we would ask, from the floor where are laying, what’s for dessert.

So, I’m missing food, and I’m exercising. I’m also trying to do things to keep my mind and hands busy, such as work on this blog faithfully again. But for now I’m going to take a break.

Having a blog is a lot of fun. It also hurts. It’s there, stuck in your mind like a piece of popcorn stuck in your teeth, “I need to do a blog post. How long has it been? Boy, I really need to do a blog post.” And so on.

But what I’ve found is that you can’t force it. Well, you can, but then it sucks, so what’s the point? I suppose some people would argue that forced writing is better than no writing at all. They would be wrong.

Anyway, I decided that since I don’t a have a great idea for one good post, I will share with you some random musings from the past few days.

If we are ever faced with an invasion on American soil, I believe my cat, Mason, could stop it single-handedly (single pawedly?) He has perfected the art of the “running leg bump.” As you are walking along, he flies by you, silently, and bumps into your leg. He does this in such a way that he collides with the leg that is in the process of stepping, so he doesn’t technically knock you down, he just throws you completely off-balance and causes you to do that ridiculous stumble thing, you know the one, where you would have been better off if you had just fallen. Anyway, any land forces wouldn’t stand a chance. They’d retreat to their home country (or possibly Canada) swearing and re-adjusting all of their equipment.

I find it difficult to believe that we, as a nation, have not found a viable purpose for drier lint. I mean, think about it. Drier lint is basically the chewed up remains of our clothing, right? I have a trash can beside my washer and drier, and it is full to the top of drier lint. That’s enough stuff to get at least a couple of articles of clothing, right? At least some socks? Anybody?

I sat in a restaurant today and listened to the lady sitting behind us lament at the state of her daughter’s marriage. The gist of her whole diatribe was that her son-in-law is an ass and her daughter is a saint. At one point she said, and I swear this is true, “He wants her to be the little Suzy Housewife and stay home all day and take care of the kids and cook and clean. My daughter wants more out of her life than that.” Since it isn’t my forte to yell at people in restaurants (unless they really, really deserve it) I let it pass. But it really chapped my ass. First of all, I am a housewife, I guess. I assume I am, based on the cultural definition. My name isn’t Suzy. Also, I think my life is pretty full, and furthermore, I like my life. I don’t fit any mold or definition that I’m aware of, and to hear another woman say that was very disappointing, though not all that surprising, which brings me to my next topic:

What in the hell has happened to feminism? In my college days I considered myself a feminist, but dear Lord, not now. Apparently being a feminist means I have to show my boobs to people and go naked into a church. I’m not sure how this shows that women are intelligent and worthy of the same opportunities as men, but whatever. Maybe I’ve missed too many meetings to speak intelligently on the subject. To my way of thinking, walking down the street naked would do the opposite of making people take me seriously. Also, I don’t think I qualify anymore because I think it’s okay if a woman wants to stay home and take care of her family, and I think it’s okay if she doesn’t. Back when I was a feminist (approximately 200 years ago) it was about equality and safety and opportunities, not about boobs. I am more than a walking, talking vagina, and if Ashley Judd is the best spokesperson we can come up with, boy are we in trouble.

That was fun, right?

I’ve missed you all, and I hope maybe you’ve missed me, too. It’s time to go do my Suzy Housewife-ly duties, and maybe take a walk. I’ll be on the lookout for the cat.

Like this:

In an effort to increase the cash flow up in here (and to keep my hands and mind busy) I’ve been piddling around making some jewelry. Rather than jump in whole hog and get my own website, I decided to join Etsy! So, in a shameless act of self-promotion, I’m providing you with the link to my Etsy shop, where you can browse all of my wonderful pieces and hopefully spend some of your wonderful money! Extra love for anyone who wants to spread the word!

Today I am linking up with The Northwest Mommy. It’s Monday Listicles, and everyone knows how I LOVE lists. Even better: it’s a list about movie quotes, which I speak fluently. I even did a post before about how my mind is constantly conjuring up movie quotes and song lyrics in response to everyday situations.

The job today is to make a list of my top ten movie quotes. Baby, I could make a list of a thousand movie quotes, but I’ll spare you. I’ll just give you a list of the ones that pop into my head the most often.

“I’ll be damned!” “You may indeed, if you get lucky.” This is from Tombstone, in a conversation between Doc Holiday and Wyatt Earp. Every time I hear someone say “I’ll be damned,” I think the response. I can’t even help it.

“Put the f—— lotion in the basket!” from Silence of the Lambs. This ones comes up every time I see anyone holding a bottle of lotion.

Also from SOTL, “Hey you don’t know what pain is!” This is also something Buffalo Bill yells down at his captive in the pit in his basement. This is after she manages to set a trap and get his little doggie down the well with her. She yells up at him that she thinks the dog is in a lot of pain. He yells this down in response. For some reason, whenever someone is whiney, this pops into my head.

“There is no normal life, Wyatt. There’s just life. Go. Live it.” This one is also from Tombstone, which I have seen many, MANY times, in case you couldn’t tell. Doc says it at the end. It’s sort of cheesy, but I like it. I don’t really believe in the word “normal,” and I guess that’s I especially liked this one.

“I’m gonna lean up against you and you just lean right back up against me. This way we don’t have to sleep with our heads in the mud.” This is from Forrest Gump. Bubba says it to Forrest while they are in Vietnam. You’ve gotta have friends, man.

“Screw ’em! Screw the government!” Anthony Hopkins says this in Legends of the Fall. He’s speaking in the context of Prohibition. I particularly love this one, because it’s part of the inner vernacular of my marriage.

“I feel like I’m babysitting except I’m not getting paid.” I use this one a LOT. It’s from The Goonies.

“Un-be-LIEVE-able!” It’s hard to get this one without hearing the way she says it, but it’s from Cold Mountain.

“If you’re gonna spew, spew into this.” This one is from Wayne’s World. Garth holds this teeny little paper cup up to his inebriated friend and says this. Any time someone says they feel sick, even if they are just speaking rhetorically, this one pops into my mind.

“I promise some day I WILL repay you. Unless of course I can’t find you or if I forget.” I have no idea why I like this one so much, I just do. It’s from Shrek 2.